


Eternal Recurrence

by Zetared



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Raphael!Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 01:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19307458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zetared/pseuds/Zetared
Summary: He was an angel, once. And again. And again. And again. Until he wasn’t.





	Eternal Recurrence

Crowley prods Aziraphale in the shoulder, when it’s over (or rather, not over; that’s quite the point). When it’s just the two of them sprawled out in the backroom of Aziraphale’s shop, nicely drunk and warm and comfortably quiet. 

“So, what does one do, exactly, when the world fails to end?”

\--

In the beginning, God surrounds Herself with them, her first living creations, her angels. Some sit at the feet of Her throne. Some hover about and act as Her hands. Some perch above Her head and relate what they see to Her in ringing, jubilant song. 

He stands before Her, always. Others have Her feet, Her Hands, Her Head. But he has access to Her thoughts, Her very mind.

From the moment Her fingers first trailed over the last of his feathers, molding Her new Creation into existence, he has asked questions. “Who am I?” “Why am I here?” “What are you doing?” “Why do you do it?”

And She answers, patient and faintly amused. He is an angel, here to serve Her and Her world. She is making reality because it pleases Her to do so, because existence is far more interesting than non-existence. Because She can.

He asks her, again, “but who am I?” 

She lays her hand on his cheek, brushes tenderness through the long locks of his long, red hair. “You are my child,” she tells him, most seriously. “You are my Raphael.”

\--

Raphael and his siblings establish a kind of routine amongst themselves. Eternity stretches before them, each moment begging to be filled with praise for their parent, their God. Some take to breaking off into angelic choirs, singing songs of glory without end. (Raphael finds it beautiful, the first time through, and tedious as anything all subsequent rounds after; it’s gratingly repetitive and rather lacking in beat, those celestial harmonies). 

Michael and some of their like-minded siblings occupy themselves with feats of prowess. They wrestle and engage in dizzying competitions of flight. (Raphael watches them regularly, mostly for those rare occasions in which one of his fellows accidentally thawps another with their wing and sends the whole team of flyers spiraling down into the soft grounds of Heaven’s fields).

Lucifer and Gabriel and a few of their closest friends take to sprawling about in decidedly public places to preen each other’s wings and compliment each other’s fine features and manner of speech. (Raphael doesn’t bother with that. He, like most of the others, simply sighs to himself every time he must walk around these seething mass of self-aggrandizing in order to get where he actually wants to be).

Most of his siblings have a place with each other. 

Raphael drifts from order to order, observing but never participating. And, when it becomes too much to bear, he returns to the throne of his parent and speaks with Her as long as She allows.

\--

He comes upon Her one day in the act of Creation. Her hands mold each piece into existence from apparent nothingness, though She has explained to him many times about atoms and matter and stardust and the like. 

Raphael tilts his head with curiosity at what she is making. “Is that another angel?” he asks, with some surprise. God has not made any angels in a long time. It would be strange--though admittedly potentially pleasant--to welcome new siblings into their flocks.

God smiles at him. “No, though the likeness is certainly there. This is a new Creation of mine, a new species that will live its days away from Heaven.”

And She explains her Plan to him--or, at least, a tiny part of it.

There will be a planet and a people and a temptation.

“But why would you wish to test them?” Raphael asks, ever curious. “What if they fail?”

She smiles at him and turns away from her half-finished work. She beckons to him and he goes to Her, as he always has and always will. She turns him about and bids him to sit down at her feet. Her fingers are deft and quick as they work small, complicated braids into his hair. “There is no failure. Not all questions are that way--there are more options to be had than simply ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’”

Raphael has to puzzle that one over for a long time, after.

\--

Something strange is happening with Lucifer and his friends.

\--

Raphael grabs Lucifer by the wrist. They are not close (Raphael is not close with anyone except, perhaps, his odd and distant Mother), but even if they were enemies, Raphael would not wish his brother to leave in this manner.

Lucifer has a sword in his hand. It is dripping with something that Raphel, until this day, had never seen. The blood of his siblings glows with the same ethereal light that comprises all their forms, but under the light it is sticky and dark and uncomfortably tangible.

“Come with me,” Lucifer says.

Raphael’s eyes dart briefly over their surroundings. Dozens of their siblings lie, prone and without life. There are feathers everywhere, drifting untethered in the breeze. The air of Heaven reeks of non-existence and, distantly, of flames.

Raphael thinks of God, of how this will hurt Her. Of how foolish he would be to leave Her side.

“You’ll all be destroyed,” Raphael says in a trembling whisper. He lets go of his brother’s arm.

Lucifer’s smile is twisted and grim. “No. I think not.”

Heaven is strange and silent, after that. The choirs are missing half their singers. The flyers’ best athletes are gone. Gabriel sits, back hunched and knees drawn up, in one of his conspicuously in-the-way places and he is entirely, utterly alone there. 

“That went rather badly, didn’t it?” a voice says.

Raphael turns. He stands on a high hill--alone, he thought--watching in horror and pain as all of Heaven mourns and grieves. God is absent, as far as anyone knows. She has not sat on her throne in days, and the seat grows cold. Even her workshop remains empty; Raphael has checked many times.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That,” the angel says, gesturing out over their fellows. “It went badly.”

“Yes. I think so,” Raphael agrees faintly, shocked by his fellow angel’s apparent apathy. “Did--did you know any of them? I mean, were you close?”

The angel, who is called Aziraphale, lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “As well as I know anyone here, I suppose.” He looks down and away as if embarrassed. “I don’t engage with the others, much.”

Raphael relaxes slightly at this confession. “No. Nor do I.”

“I’m Aziraphale,” Aziraphale says by way of proper introduction. 

“Oh! I know you. You’re the scholar among us. God says that you keep Her records for Her.”

Aziraphale’s somber aspect brightens. “Yes! I’ve been writing Her dictations down on scrolls. I’ve collected quite a number, already. I intend to request more space, soon, to store it all.”

“But what for?” Raphael can’t help but ask.

Aziraphale’s brightness dims slightly. “Well,” he says, awkwardly, stiffly, “It’s--I suppose it does seem a bit silly.”

Raphael shakes his head. “Not what I meant,” he assures. “I’m sure it’s a perfectly reasonable thing to do. I just don’t understand--what’s the purpose of having it all written down?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders relax even though his smile fails to regain its previous luster. “For the future, of course. We may be eternal, but memory is a faulty thing, isn’t it? This way, we can remind ourselves of what happened, here, in ‘the old days.’”

Raphael considers this for a long time, after.

\--

“Did you write about it?” Raphael asks Aziraphale out of the blue. Time has passed since half of their siblings disappeared from Heaven. God has returned, recently, though She has locked Herself away in her workshop and has allowed no one--not even Raphael--entry.

Aziraphale blinks up at him. They are lying together in the soft, ultra-green grass under the branches of something that is and also isn’t a tree. Said branches move in the breeze like the tentacles of an octopus (which doesn’t exist yet, either, of course). One such branch lowers itself down to them and Aziraphale pats it idly as he replies. “Write about what, my dear?”

Raphael pulls at one of Aziraphale’s curls. Aziraphale’s head is in his lap, and Raphael can’t resist the temptation. “About--about the Fall.”

That’s what they’re calling it, now, capital F and everything. Just saying it makes Raphael shiver.

“I did,” Aziraphale replies, speaking cautiously. “It’s part of our history, the same as anything. Do you think I shouldn’t’ve?”

Raphael shakes his head. “You said it was important that we be able to look back and remember what was done. That must be especially true of something like this.”

Aziraphale’s answering hum is soft and sad. “Come here,” he says, reaching up and looping his arms around his fellow angel in a close embrace. Raphael’s arms loop around Aziraphale’s broad shoulders in return, and they spend a long time together that way, entangled.

\--

The angel called Metatron brings them all together _en masse_ and makes a declaration on behalf of God: She has finished her Creation, the one made in her image. She has made a place for it on her favorite planet and needs angels to attend to it, to keep it all safe.

Raphael is surprised when Aziraphale comes to him later with a sword in his hand.

Aziraphale shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. “There’s four of us going, all former guards of Her throne. She says that She doesn’t need us there, anymore. She no longer intends to use it.”

Raphael frowns. “Will you be gone long?”

Aziraphale’s troubled expression causes a frisson of alarm to spark up Raphael’s spine. “I really couldn’t say.”

“Oh.”

Raphael tugs lightly at Aziraphale’s wrist, pulling his hand to him. He folds his own two around it in a gentle press. “I’ll miss you,” he says.

Aziraphale’s draw brows and tight frown melt away. His smile is warm and reaches all the way to his eyes. “Oh, my dear boy. I’ll miss you, too.”

\--

Raphael finds himself adrift for a while after that. He repeatedly attempts to visit his Mother and is repeatedly denied. “Please,” he calls at the great door of Her workshop, a place She never leaves, now. “Please let me in!”

But She does not.

And then, all at once, chaos reigns in Heaven the likes of which has not been seen since the Fall.

The creatures God has made and placed upon her planet have partaken in her first test. For all that Raphael remembers Her assurances that failure and success are subjective, that there are more options to be had in the testing, the resulting madness seems like failure, to him.

She banishes them, Her youngest children, wingless and fragile as they are, from the safe place She had made for them. 

And after She has done so, after he has heard word of it, Raphael runs across Heaven to Her workshop, determined to confront Her there.

The door is wide open. The place is empty.

She is not there nor any other place in Heaven. She has left.

\--

Her mortal creations spread across the known land. Gabriel, Michael, and the Metatron fill up the empty spaces that God has left behind Her.

“Go down there,” Gabriel tells Raphael and some of their fellow siblings. “And keep an eye on things.”

Raphael does as bidden. There is nothing else to do, anyway

\--

The planet is strange, being so decidedly corporeal. The body that Heaven has made for him is not so terrible--tall-ish and absurdly lean though it might be, at least he retains a tangible representation of his hair. And his wings _are_ present, for all that he cannot see them and can only barely sense them, here.

Raphael meanders about, observing the people She had created with a rather judgemental eye. What’s so special about them, He wonders? Why is it that their actions sent Her away when even the betrayal of Lucifer and his followers had not?

But then he meets a man named Tobit and his son Tobias and he begins to comprehend.

Tobit encounters Raphael in a small and crowded market. He and his son are there to buy provisions for travel. Raphael, watching Tobit with interest because the angel has never seen a blind man, before, engages the two in conversation and discovers that Tobias will soon set out on a journey. He seeks a cure for his father’s blinded eyes.

Raphael, intrigued and delighted by the prospect of seeing more of the world, offers to tag along.

Tobias is a hale young man, clever and friendly and brave. He chatters ceaselessly as they walk, but Raphael is content to listen and doesn’t mind. The more the young creature talks, in fact, the more Raphael understands his Mother’s love for them. These beings are so wonderful in their candor, their imagination, their dedication to expression and self and, indeed, to God. 

“But God doesn’t speak to you,” Raphael argues with Tobias one night as they lie beneath Her incalculable stars. “Isn’t that frustrating for you?”

Tobias laughs. “Who am I to say that God doesn’t speak? Are there not beautiful stars above me? Is there not a good friend beside me? Does not my loving father wait for me behind me, safe at home in the place where I have grown and learned? I can hear God quite clearly, friend. Why can’t you?”

Raphael thinks about that for a long while, after.

\--

“What’s happening?” Raphael mutters, mostly to himself. There’s a large crowd gathered here, all of them staring out at some sort of giant contraption made of wood. There are a few men and women walking to and from the thing, dragging animals behind them.

“Word is, She’s feeling a bit tetchy.”

Raphael whirls at the familiar voice. “Aziraphale?” he asks, joy and incredulity raging in his breast. “What are you doing here?”

Azirapahle blinks at him without recognition for a moment--hard to see each other properly with bodies in the way--and then grins wide, pulling Raphael into a warm embrace the like of which they have not shared for what feels like eons. “Raphael! It’s so good to see you.”

Raphael nods, distractedly. He’s still staring at the boat and all the people. “What do you mean ‘tetchy’? What’s going on here?”

Aziraphale explains with the same nervous, uncertain fluttered he’d shown long ago when he first described his scroll work. Embarrassed, but not alarmed.

Raphael, for his part, experiences a jolt of pure horror. “ _All_ of them? Even the children?”

“Well, all of the locals. Except Noah, there, and his family. The Metatron relayed the message initially, I think. And then a bunch of the others were ordered to explain the crux of the thing to Noah and his kin.”

Raphael is shocked. Is She returned, then, truly? He doesn’t know, and Heaven is rather cagey about the topic, when asked. “She--She’ll kill them, just like that?”

Aziraphale shifts from foot to foot. “They’ve been rather wicked, I’ve been told.”

“But you haven’t seen anything for yourself?” Raphael demands. “What do you even mean, wicked? What’s that _mean_?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “There are agents of Lucifer’s up and about here. You know how demons are.”

Raphael does know. He’s been walking the planet too long not to have encountered a few of Lucifer’s men. He and Tobias had slaughtered one, in fact, during their quest to cure Tobit’s failed sight. (A useless endeavour. In the end, Tobias had returned home with nothing to show for it but the guts of a fish. Raphael, rather than inform the boy of why such an item was useless, had simply cast a tiny miracle and set the old man’s eyes right himself. The two mortals had given credit entirely to the smoked fish bits, but Raphael doesn’t mind). “I do. But just because demons are afoot doesn’t mean anyone here deserves to _die_ , does it?”

Aziraphale casts him an odd look, the sort of expression Raphael has never seen on his face, before. “It’s all part of Her Plan, my dear, I’m sure. You know how it is.”

“Ineffable,” Raphael sighs. Except he had known parts of that Plan, once. She had told him about it Herself. But that was long ago, now, and more and more he cannot begin to understand what She is doing and why. Raphael watches, pained, as a handful of the younger beings run by, laughing and completely unaware of their terrible fate.

They drown.

Raphael pulls a few of them to his chest as the waters rise. They huddle together in the remains of a shelter, as if that will do any good at all. There are a dozen of them or so, mostly children forcibly parted from their parents in the chaos of the violent storm. They cling to him and to each other. But one by one, as the water fills their lungs, their grips loosen and their bodies float away.

He remains alone, trapped like a fly in amber, buoyant in body and as heavy in soul as he has ever been.

\--

Aziraphale finds him in Rome, somehow.

“Raphael!” his fellow angel cries out, all excitement and good cheer. “How are you?”

Raphael cracks his neck and beckons the barkeep to refill his drink. “Fine,” he says, dully. “How’re you?”

Aziraphale, oblivious to Raphael’s mood, sits across from him. “Quite well, thank you! I’m here to try a new restaurant that’s all the rage. What are you up to?”

Raphael makes a face at his drink. It tastes fine, but his mouth is suddenly sour. “Same thing as always. Heal the devout. Smite the wicked. Rinse and repeat.” 

Aziraphale’s good cheer flickers and fades as Raphael’s mood finally registers with him. He lays a hand, far too familiarly, on Raphael’s arm. “Are you--? Would you like to join me for dinner? I’ve heard the oysters are divine.”

Raphael snorts at the likely unintentional blasphemy from his fellow’s lips. “Nah, thanks. I’ve got work to do. You know how it is.”

“Goodness is ever-vigilant,” Aziraphale agrees, nodding perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.

Raphael rolls his eyes faintly. “If you like.”

\--

Raphael staggers through the doors of the small chapel and promptly falls to his knees in the stones, retching miserably. There’s no real _reason_ his corporation should have to be sick if he wanted to prevent it, but doing so seems unjust.

The air, everywhere, reeks of death and decay and, worst of all, total _fear_.

He has spent the better part of half a decade, now, wandering his way across the infected regions of Europe, laying his healing hands upon those that Heaven determines are worthy. (Who, exactly, decides these things, now, Raphael wonders in his darkest moments. She is not Above--they all know that. Is it Gabriel who decrees who lives and who dies? Even Gabriel has been stubbornly silent more and more as of late. “Just handle it,” he had snapped the last time Raphael had dared to call). So, Raphael finds those he feels are properly pious (they are all pious, now; fear of the unknown makes believers of all people) and he eases their pain. They still die, mostly. Death has dominion in this place that far outpaces the paltry power of one minor archangel. But at least they die with a modicum of peace.

“I thought that was you,” Aziraphale says as he kneels in the dirt near Raphael and places his hands on the backs of his shoulders, steadying him through the worst of his gagging. “I thought you might be here.”

“Where else would I be?” Raphael asks, raggedly, once the worst of the retching has passed and he is able to sit back. Aziraphale remains where he is, and Raphael gives into the painful, awful temptation to lean into the warmth of him, to savor the touch of someone who knows, even if more and more Raphael is convinced that his fellow angel doesn’t _understand_. “Bloody angel of bloody healing, aren’t I? Where the _fuck_ else would I be?”

Aziraphale’s hands flutter against his shoulders at the vehemence in his words. The other angel is silent, obviously not sure how to respond. There’s nothing he can say that will make it better, anyway. 

Raphael staggers to his feet. “I should--.”

Aziraphale stands, too, and grabs at his wrist, tugs him back, tugs him until Raphael turns in his hold, until they stand eye-to-eye. Aziraphale keeps his hand wrapped firmly around Raphael’s wrist. “Stay out here a while longer,” he says, his voice almost a plea. “Stay with me a moment and relax.”

Raphael’s sinuses burn with the sudden, mortifying need to cry. He swallows the impulse down and looks away, tugging his hand free from Aziraphale’s grasp. “You--I can’t.” He meets Aziraphale’s eyes for a moment. “You don’t see it, Aziraphale. You don’t see it.”

“I could try!” Aziraphale calls after him, sounding confused and almost as miserable as Raphael. 

Raphael lets the heavy chapel doors shut definitely between them.

He _hates_ the 14th century.

\--

They suffer. 

They are born and they die and in between they _suffer_. 

“You said they couldn’t fail,” Raphael accuses the air, from time to time. “You said you’d test them, but to what end? To this? Testing them for what? So that they could drown in their sorrow? Their agony? Their fear and shame? _Why_?”

He’s never been able to stop himself from asking questions, even when he knows no one is listening.

\--

“Work with me,” Aziraphale says. “Stay in London with me.”

They sit together at a table in a fancy restaurant that Raphael didn’t catch the name of and doesn’t care about enough to remember, anyway. 

Aziraphale looks more comfortable in his long coat and fuzzy top hat than Raphael’s ever seen the angel be in mortal attire before. He also wears a tartan waistcoat, which is probably unfashionable (comparing it to the attire of those around him). But Raphael finds comfort in the pattern of the fabric, especially now as Aziraphale presses his advantage, insistent and annoyingly unwavering as ever.

“I keep telling you no,” Raphael sighs, eyes following the lines of the tartan print in its swift, neat parallel lines.

“But it’s _different_ , now.”

“Is it?” Raphael asks with total lack of interest. He’s not had a lot of interest to go around, as of late. It’s all the same, once you strip away the shiny wrapping paper of progress and mortal innovation. People are born, they suffer, they die. They have since the Beginning, and they always will. Terrible, at first. Mostly tedious, now.

“I--” Aziraphale begins.

“Do you remember the ark?” Raphael interrupts.

Aziraphale sits back, mouth lax in surprise. “I don’t--?”

“Did you go aboard?”

Aziraphale nods. “Of course. I was ordered to keep an eye on things. How was I meant to do that if not from the boat?”

Raphael’s lips twitch into a smile that has no joy in it. He runs a hand over his hair. It’s far too long for the current fashions. Her creatures stare at him, sometimes, their eyes drawn by how poorly he fits in. He can’t keep apace of their fashions and social accessories. What does it matter? Language and hairstyles may change, but their deaths remain the same. Their pain is not altered a bit. 

“I stayed.”

Aziraphale frowns, confused at first. A clear horror dawns slowly over his face. “My dear boy,” he says, stricken.

“You don’t see it, Aziraphale. None of you do, I think. You don’t see it.”

Aziraphale’s horror turns quickly to a prickly, heated frustration. “You always say that, but you never _explain_ \--.”

“You go too far for me, Aziraphale,” Raphael breaks in. They are born and they suffer and they die, and Aziraphale stands aside and allows it, all for the greater will of God, who has not said a word to anyone directly since the mortal creatures failed her rigged test. Aziraphale doesn’t see it, the _hypocrisy_ , the _insanity_ of it all.

Raphael tugs lightly on one of Aziraphale’s curls as he passes by on his way out. “See you in a while.” He says, because he can still afford to be at least a little bit kind.

\--

Raphael raises a brow at his fellow angel as they stand in the rubble of a smoldering, bombed out church. “Nice to see you again,” he says, turning to go.

“The books,” Aziraphale breathes, voice wrecked with sorrow. “I forgot the books. They’ll be all destroyed!”

Raphael turns, prompted by the sheer upset in the other angel’s voice. Aziraphale never sounds that bothered. Not by Fallen siblings, not by dying mortal beings, not by anything.

“They’re just books,” Raphael says, flatly, just in case Aziraphale has forgotten what’s important in the grander scheme of things.

Aziraphale’s panicked face goes sharp, his lips pursing in irritation. “Yes, well. I suppose I can’t expect you to understand.”

Raphael smirks at the small irony, recalling their last brittle conversation a good half century before. “I suppose neither of us really understands the other, then, anymore.”

\--

“ _What_ are you doing?” Aziraphale demands in a low hiss.

It’s a fair question.

Raphael turns just enough to look at the angel over his shoulder. Aziraphale looks mostly unchanged from the last time they’d met. Wearing the long pale coat, again, with a button-down underneath. Most of the mortals these days wear flared pants and turtlenecks. Tartan seems to be more in style than usual, in London. That should please Aziraphale, at least.

Aziraphale looks anything but pleased, now. In fact, he might be rather angry.

“ _What are you doing_?” he repeats, stomping forward.

Raphael reaches out instinctively, slamming the other angel back a few steps with an invisible force. “Stay back,” he warns, tightly. “Don’t you know it could kill you?” And he smirks at that, wry and hollow and _so tired_.

It seems so innocuous. This alley in Soho, dark with shadows and smelling faintly of charred meats and musk. The buildings on this block are empty, this time of night. Raphael had made certain of that.

Behind them, the flames of the small fire flicker and dance. It’s trapped, for the moment, in a glass globe with a flat metal top that latches across. A normal fire would die in such conditions, smothered by the lack of oxygen. But infernal flame is sturdier stuff.

“Why?” Aziraphale asks. He doesn’t look angry, now, as much as deeply unnerved. His gaze flickers from Raphael to the fire and back again. 

“It’s all supposed to end, you know.”

Aziraphale frowns, looking as if Raphael has spoken to him in a language he doesn’t know or, perhaps, did know, once, but has since forgotten. “What is?”

Raphael gestures to the whole of the universe with an idle pass of his hand. “That’s the Plan. That’s what She told me. She said that she would Create them and then test them and then destroy them, just like that.”

Aziraphale blinks. He looks as if he might argue, at first, but there’d really be no point. All angels know that Raphael had Her thoughts, once upon a time. She shared them freely, always answering his many, many questions with truth and love. “Why would She do that? What would the point be?”

Raphael’s smile is sharp. “I’ve been asking myself that for nearly six-thousand years. I hope you find out the answer. I never did.” And he turns back to the waiting fire.

“No!” Aziraphale snaps. He stomps forward and grabs Raphael by both arms, tugging him forcibly back from the innocent-looking flames. He whirls Raphael around and then resumes his tight hold on the angel’s forearms. His expression is shattered, eyes wide. “What’s happened to you?”

Raphael chokes on a bitter laugh. “What’d’you mean? I’m fine. It’s all _fine_ , isn’t it? A rigged game, through and through, that’s all. You know, they think they’re actually _achieving_ something? They’re proud of themselves for their gadgets and their games and their stories and their art. As if it matters.”

Aziraphale frowns. “It does. It does matter. Raphael, their books alone--!”

“They’re ephemeral, Aziraphale. Not made to last.”

“That’s what I mean! That’s why all that you mentioned is so important. Don’t you see? It lingers on, after. Their music, their plays, their _foods_ , it all sticks around from generation to generation. They have a _history_. That matters.”

Raphael stares at him. “This is about your scrolls, isn’t it? Your obsession with retaining what has passed on, just playing out in a new environment.” Raphael’s laugh is short and sharp as a blade. “You don’t care about _them_ at all.”

Aziraphale’s fingers tighten. “That is _not_ true. You’d know it, if you’d just stay with me for longer than a few hours every few decades. You’d see how wonderful they are, if you tried. They’re _happy_ , Raphael. That pride they feel in their works and progressions is earned! They have their struggles, I admit. As a whole, they’re rather a mess, in fact. But, despite that, they’re simply delig--.”

“They’re all doomed,” Raphael reminds him, brutally. “Their history, their silly diversions, all those useless trinkets in which they’ve placed their imagination and time--it all goes away with the rest of existence, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale goes silent for a long moment. Then, softly, “When?”

Raphael shrugs. “She never gave an exact date. But sooner rather than later, I imagine.”

Aziraphale peers over at the contained infernal fire. “And what’s this, then? Beating the rush?”

Raphael shocks the other angel by abruptly going lax against him, the angel’s head falling lightly against Aziraphale’s shoulder as if he simply cannot hold himself upright any more. “She doesn’t hear me. I talk and I talk and I talk, and nobody hears.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, troubled. He lets go of Raphel’s arms and moves to hold him in a loose embrace, instead. His fingers curl slightly into the fabric of Raphael’s tunic. The other angel has never quite gotten the hang of modern clothes.

“I should have Fallen,” Raphael says, voice distant, as if the thought comes from far away. “I could have Fallen. Being a demon would have been so much better than this.”

Aziraphale hasn’t a clue what to say to that, apparently, because he says nothing at all for a long time.

After an age, Aziraphale pulls away from the embrace. “Work with me,” he repeats, an entreaty he has made at least a hundred times and is willing to make a hundred more until he is satisfied. “Stay with me.”

“What,” Raphael asks, dryly. “Until the end of the world?”

Aziraphale’s expression is soft. He runs fussy fingers through Raphael’s long, fire-y hair. “If you like.”

Raphael steps away. Aziraphale lets his hands fall at his sides, clenching his fist to ease the empty ache. 

Raphael sighs, turning away. He stares into the flickering fire for a moment. “Someone’s probably dying, somewhere,” the angel remarks, flatly. “I should go.” 

He waves a hand and the infernal flame and its glass prison disappear from sight. He turns and passes Aziraphale out of the alley.

“Don’t--d-don’t be a stranger!” Aziraphale calls after him, weakly.

Raphael does not reply.

\--

It’s rare that Raphael crosses paths with agents of Hell. Though his particular line of angelic influence leads him in areas of great strife and sin on a regular basis, he never finds Hell at the center of it. It’s simply Her beloved mortal creatures, making a mess all on their own volition. 

So Raphael might be excused for the delayed nature of his response as he knocks physically into a man, pardons himself, and keeps walking on only to stop, baffled by the realization that the man in question had smelled of sulphur and had a large frog perched on his head.

“Wait a minute!” Raphael shouts, spinning on a heel. He chases the demon a few blocks but eventually loses him in the darkness. “What in the name of Heaven was that about?” he asks to no one in particular.

The demon had been holding a basket. And Raphael is almost positive that the basket had been crying.

\--

“What were you thinking?” Raphael asks. Despite it all, despite everything, he can’t help but be curious, even as the world threatens to burn.

Aziraphale throws him a dark look. “Well someone had to do _something_ ,” the angel says, sharp and accusatory. 

Raphael hums, not bothered. “No one can stop this,” he tells Aziraphale, in case Aziraphale has forgotten how Her will works. “It’s the Plan.”

“Oh, _bollocks_ to the Plan,” Aziraphale snaps, throwing up his arms. 

Raphael says nothing. He simply watches with dull, distant interest as the Four ride in. Their steeds are strange and not at all how Raphael had expected. Regardless, they are unmistakable in their countenances. Death even pauses and tosses Rapheal a neat, professional nod of recognition as he buzzes by.

Raphael knows each of the Four intimately, perhaps even better than he knows the angel standing next to him, the one currently gripping his hand in alarm. 

“We should--.”

“Let it go, Aziraphale,” Raphael advises. 

“But their--the world is so _good_ , Raphael.”

Raphael glances at Aziraphale, incredulity impossible to miss. 

“You love them,” Aziraphale tries instead, rather clumsily. “You care about them, don’t you? You don’t like to see them die. You wouldn’t want them to cease to exist.”

There was a man, once, called Tobit and his brave and friendly son named Tobias, who had told Raphael, with utter certainty, that God exists in all things.

“Aziraphale,” Raphael says, as patient as can be, “Nobody cares what I want, especially not Her. Especially not _them._ ” He gestures at the scene before them, at the Four and the gathered authorities of Heaven and Hell. Michael has a sword gripped tightly in hand, looking as hungry for competition as they did when Heaven was new. Gabriel just looks...stiff. That’s not so unusual, either. Not since the Fall.

The Antichrist stands in the middle of it all, blank-faced and red-eyed. It’s strange to think he’s a real, normal boy in there, somewhere.

“Don’t let it end,” Aziraphale begs him, squeezing his hand so tight the bones of his corporation grind. “Please. Help me.” Raphael shakes his head, his lips a firm line.

The world shakes ominously, throwing the two unprepared entities to the ground. The skies go red and sinister. A terrible roar fills the air. The amassed armies of Heaven and Hell appear in a flash of light to stand upon the ground of Her once-beloved planet. 

They raise their weapons. 

And the world ends.

\-- 

In the beginning, God surrounds Herself with them, her first living creations, her angels. Some sit at the feet of Her throne. Some hover about and act as Her hands. Some perch above Her head and relate what they see to Her in ringing, jubilant song. “You are my child. You are my Raphael.”

\--

“Don’t let it end,” Aziraphale begs him, squeezing his hand so tight the bones of his corporation grind. “Please. Help me.” Raphael hesitates.

\--

“You are my child. You are my Raphael.”

\--

“Don’t let it end,” Aziraphale begs him, squeezing his hand so tight the bones of his corporation grind. “Please. Help me.” Raphael steps forward, but it is too late.

\--

“Don’t let it end,” Aziraphale begs him, squeezing his hand so tight the bones of his corporation grind. “Please. Help me.”

Raphael shakes his head. “You don’t understand. You never have, you never do, you never will.”

Aziraphale’s lips pinch. “You’ve never even tried to explain it. You just accuse me of ignorance and never once--.”

Raphael pulls his wings into the physical plane, where they can be touched and seen by immortal and mortal eyes alike.

Aziraphale’s complaint dies on his lips. He takes a staggering step back and away from Raphael.

When Lucifer and his followers had Fallen, in the short hours before they had been flung from the majesty of Heaven to the ground below, every feather in their collective wings had gone from pearly white to a deep, dark black, as if singed by fire. 

Raphael’s wings are black as night.

“I don’t--when did-- _how_?” Aziraphale finally lands on, voice shaken. 

Before Raphael can begin to answer, the world shakes ominously, throwing the two unprepared entities to the ground. The skies go red and sinister. A terrible roar fills the air. The amassed armies of Heaven and Hell appear in a flash of light to stand upon the ground of Her once-beloved planet. 

They raise their weapons. 

And the world ends.

\--

Crowley pulls at one of Aziraphale’s curls and lets it spring back. He grins. “So?” he presses. “Tell me. What does one do, exactly, when the world fails to end?”

Aziraphale blinks rapidly, pulling himself back from wherever his mind has been, a thousand miles and a world away. “Hm? Oh, my dear, I couldn’t begin to guess.”

“Let me tempt you to something, then,” the demon says.

“It’s hardly a temptation when the temptee is willing, is it?” Aziraphale asks. His voice is low and rather slurry with drink.

“ _Are_ you? Willing, I mean?” Crowley asks, surprise clear in his yellow, split-pupil eyes. 

Aziraphale snorts a soft huff of air and clumsily pats his cheek. “My dear, I have been willing for longer than you know.”

\--

Crowley had not Fallen as much as sauntered vaguely downwards.

It wasn’t his fault. He’d just got involved with the wrong people.

All he’d ever done was ask questions, really. 

\--

 _“To_ endure _the idea of the recurrence one needs freedom from morality; new means against the fact of pain [...]; the enjoyment of all kinds of uncertainty, experimentalism, as a counterweight to this extreme fatalism; abolition of the concept of necessity; abolition of the "will"; abolition of "knowledge-in-itself. Greatest elevation of the consciousness of strength in man, as he creates the overman." -_ Nietzsche

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the philosophical notion that events occur a self-similar state over and over again.


End file.
